


Listen to the Man

by guardianhathaway (orphan_account)



Category: Shameless (US)
Genre: M/M, post 5.12
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-06-17
Updated: 2015-06-17
Packaged: 2018-04-03 13:55:02
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 5,621
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/4103374
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/orphan_account/pseuds/guardianhathaway
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>"I'm not fucking broken!”</p><p>“Yeah, you fucking are! I know you are, Ian, because I'm broken, too. We're broken right now and we need to get back to a place where we aren't."</p>
            </blockquote>





	Listen to the Man

By the time they finally release him from the hospital, Mickey has formulated a plan. It’s a stupid plan, sure, he knows that. But it’s all he’s got.  
  
Thank fucking God Sammi’s aim is as bad as the smell she came back with. The bullet just grazed his arm, leaving a nasty, burning gash across his left bicep and completely ruining his only winter coat. Mickey knows from experience it could have been so much worse. He barely even feels the stitches tugging uncomfortably at his skin or the itchy gauze he’s gonna have to change three times a day for weeks so the wound won't fester.  
  
He feels none of it and all of it at the same time.  
  
Because Ian left him. Ian came back, gave him hope, then fucking dumped him like yesterday’s trash.  
  
None of the bullets he’s taken hurt more than that.  
  


* * *

  
Mickey makes his way through a drug-fueled haze to the Gallagher house. Fiona is sitting on the front steps smoking when he reaches the gate. Her eyes go wide as a bug's at the sight of him. It feels like it’s been days since he last saw her, but maybe that’s just the painkillers because he vividly recalls her standing calmly at Ian’s side while Mickey ran for his life.  
  
“You Gallaghers are fucking assholes, you know that?” he hears himself slur.  
  
Fiona winces, but has the decency to look sheepish. “I’m sorry. I don’t know what the hell came over me. It’s just… when Ian didn’t react, I—” Her jaw snaps closed when she sees the way Mickey cringes at the mention of Ian. “Mickey,” she says desperately, clumsily getting to her feet and approaching him. “Mickey, I’m so sorry. Is it…” She glances down at his arm to see blood seeping through the bandage.  
  
“Just a flesh wound. Nothin’ I haven’t had before. Wasn’t your fault," he says to placate her. She doesn’t mean it anyway. She just wants to be absolved of her guilt. Mickey may not really know Fiona, but he knows the Gallagher M.O. all too well. They like to fuck shit up and sweep the consequences under the rug. They want to have their way, and God damn anyone who tries to stop them. Maybe it’s bad parenting or maybe it’s just genetics. The cause doesn’t really matter, only the effect.  
  
Mickey’s not sure why he’s giving Fiona such an easy out, though. What he wants to give her is a piece of his fucking mind. But then he remembers: he’s not here for her. She’s an obstacle in the way of his plan right now. He needs to get around her.  
  
“Ian here?”  
  
Fiona hesitates. She probably doesn’t know what went down, but she’d have to be fucking blind not to know things aren’t right between him and Ian.  
  
“I just need to talk to him,” Mickey sighs, trying not to sound as exasperated as he feels.  
  
Fiona purses her lips, thinking. She glances at him then up at the bedroom window facing out over the lawn. Mickey follows her gaze just in time to see Ian duck out of his line of vision.  
  
“Oh, hell no,” Mickey grumbles.  
  
He sidesteps Fiona, ignoring her breathy “wait”, and dashes up the front steps, not stopping until he’s thundering into Ian’s room and slamming the door shut behind him.  
  
Ian is curled up at the foot of his bed, back braced against the wall like it’s the only thing keeping him upright. His bloodshot eyes won’t focus and his face is white as a sheet of paper. He looks fucking pathetic, Mickey decides. The fire in him dies out completely.  
  
“What do you want?” Ian croaks, not looking at him.  
  
Mickey scratches at his jaw and shuffles awkwardly. So much for the plan. “Well, I came over here to tell you to go fuck yourself.”  
  
Ian’s eyes dart towards him then quickly away. He huffs out a broken laugh. “Is that right?”  
  
“Yep,” Mickey answers with a pop. “Was gonna come up here, scream and yell, maybe knock you around a little then tell you to go get fucked. That’s what I should do, isn’t it? That would be the rational way to respond to the shit you just pulled.”  
  
Nothin'.  
  
It’s probably unfair and downright shitty of him, but Mickey glares at Ian, forcing him to say something, anything.  
  
Ian fidgets, yanking the ends of his sleeves down over his hands and tucking his arms against his chest. He’s folding in on himself right before Mickey’s very eyes. He’s trying to shield himself, and fuck if that doesn’t kill Mickey to watch.  
  
“Get on with it then,” Ian finally says in that dead tone he uses too often these days. “If it’ll make you feel better, fucking do it.”  
  
Mickey scoffs, turning away to pace the short length of the room. “See, that’s the problem. I thought comin’ in here and throwing all this shit back in your face _would_ make me feel better. But what the fuck difference would it make?" Mickey throws his hands up and shrugs. "I’d say my piece while you sit there in silence, just waiting for me to leave. Then I’d lose my shit, storm outta here, and we’d probably never speak to each other again. It wouldn’t make a difference either way.”  
  
Something like emotion finally— _finally_ —flits across Ian’s face. He’s confused, his eyebrows knitting together and mouth slightly gaping open. “So if you’re not gonna say what you came here to say, why are you here?” It obviously exhausts him to string together so many words, but it’s enough. There’s _something_ there. Curiosity, at the very least.  
  
“I’m here,” Mickey says slowly, enunciating each syllable, “to talk some fucking sense into you. You’re drowning, Ian, and you need someone to throw you a lifeline.”  
  
“I don’t,” Ian immediately argues.  
  
“Yes, you fucking do. Just because you don’t _want_ it doesn’t mean you don’t _need_ it." When Ian remains quiet, Mickey sighs heavily and runs a hand over his face. "We have to talk about this, Ian."  
  
His freckled face twists with the tiniest semblance of anger. Ian moves like he’s going to get up but decides against it half-way through and sags back into the wall.  
  
“Since when do you want to talk about anything?” he snarks dully.  
  
“Since right now. You broke up with me, Ian.” No, he is not going to acknowledge the way his voice cracks. “You broke up with me and now you’re going to tell me why.”  
  
Wild, hazel eyes flash at him and Ian’s gaze focuses for the first time since Mickey stomped in. “I already told you—”  
  
Mickey threw his hands up, cutting Ian off. “No, you fucking didn’t! You spewed some crap about sparing me—what was it? ”Your next crazy shit”?" Mickey turns an unsettling shade of purple. A vein in the pale column of his throat throbs. "For fuck’s sake, Ian, I’ve been dealing with your crazy shit for years now! You think this is any different than you fuckin’ around with grandpas to get a rise outta me? Or running off to the goddamn army ‘cause things got a little too hard for you? How ‘bout when you practically forced me to come out to Terry and we got our asses handed to us at the bar? That was all you, Ian! That was all _your crazy shit_!”  
  
Ian flinches, tearing his eyes away from Mickey and looking off to the side, staring at nothing. He might be trying to come up with some kind of response, but Mickey doesn’t have the patience to wait for it.  
  
“You owe me this, Ian,” he says, ignoring how it sounds like a plea. “I have never asked you for anything, but I’m asking you for this. _Why?_ ”  
  
“Because you deserve better!” Ian explodes suddenly. “You deserve better than watching me turn into Monica. I deserve better than having to watch you turn into Frank.”  
  
It’s so far from anything Mickey was anticipating, he actually sputters before he exclaims, “Fuck Monica and Frank! What the fuck have they got to do with us, Ian?”  
  
“Everything! I'm fucked up, Mickey. Just like her. And you... well, I'm sure you weren't exactly on your best behavior while I was gone.”  
  
His initial instinct is to jump down Ian’s throat, to deny and reject any wrong-doing on his part. But Mickey can’t very well do that, now can he? He takes a deep breath that makes his whole body shudder with rage. “That's the first and fucking last time you ever compare me to Frank. Or yourself to Monica. We are not them, Ian! We're fucked up, fine. But we're not them.”  
  
"Fiona... and Lip..."  
  
"Fiona and Lip can go choke on a bag of dicks. I better not hear you say that shit ever again. You got me?"  
  
Whatever fight Ian had mustered completely bled out of him. He sunk further against the wall, his arms tightening around his middle. “I can't do it, Mickey,” he says tiredly. “I can't go back on the pills.”  
  
“Ian…”  
  
“No!” Ian turns into an unsteady blur when he surges up off the mattress. Mickey flinches, startled by the sudden movement. Before he can jump in and argue, Ian says in a small voice, “I'd rather feel like shit than feel nothing, than not even know who I am. I can't live like that, Mick.”  
  
Mickey shakes off the sudden wave of anxiety that’s hit him and tries to sound soothing. “It's temporary, Ian. You heard the doctor say the same shit I did. It just takes time to adjust.”  
  
“I can’t,” Ian says stubbornly. He slowly lowers himself to sit at the edge of his bed and fusses over a loose thread hanging from his sleeve.  
  
Since arguing hasn’t gotten him anywhere so far, Mickey tries a new route. “Fine. You can't. That's your choice to make. But get it out of your fucking head that you are anything like that selfish pile of trash who gave birth to you. You're not Monica. You're Ian. Take your meds or don't. I'm gonna fucking love you just the same.”  
  
It wasn’t supposed to be such a dramatic declaration, but _fuck_ , Mickey’s just trying to keep up here. Maybe if he was more like Lip he’d know exactly what to say or be able to manipulate the situation to his advantage. But he doesn’t want to manipulate Ian. It wouldn't solve anything.  
  
He doesn’t realize Ian is crying until he speaks. “How can you say that? I’m not the same person I was before.”  
  
Mickey’s heart breaks all over again at the way Ian’s voice cracks. He feels an all-too-familiar stinging behind his own eyes. “Yeah?” he gasps. “Well, neither am I. And thank fucking God for it." Ian's head snaps up in surprise. Mickey doesn't look away. "No shit we're not the same dumbass kids we were before all this, Ian. We're better now.”  
  
“Oh, really?” Ian snorts.  
  
“It's a personal theory, but yeah, I think we fucking are,” Mickey says defensively. “Jesus Christ, Ian, we pretty much live together. We cook and clean and do all that domestic shit _together_. We fucking snuggle on the couch. We're practically an old married couple. If those stupid kids could see you and me now, they'd piss their pants. Probably for totally different reasons, but still..." He shakes his head, chuckling without any real humor. "Did you ever see shit working out the way it did?”  
  
That does the trick to get a reaction out of Ian. He gapes up at him, shocked. “This is what you call "working out"? Mickey, I cheated on you! I kidnapped your baby! I left you here to clean up another mess I fucking made!"  
  
“That's not the point, Ian!” Mickey shouts. “How much fucked up shit did I do to you back when we first started, huh? How many times did I put you down, push you away? But it's like that shit just rolled off your back, like it didn't matter. You were still there, you goddamn glutton for punishment. I couldn't fucking understand it. I mean, you could have gotten anyone you wanted, right? So why the hell did you want me? I figured it was one those "want what you can't have" things. Or maybe you just really liked the chase.” He shrugs. There are tear tracks down his cheeks now, but Mickey isn’t about to wipe them away. If there’s one place he’s safe, it’s here with Ian. And if that isn’t true anymore… Well, he has to find out, one way or the other.  
  
“I know better now,” Mickey whispers after a pause. “I know that you couldn't give up on me because you loved me.”  
  
Ian’s spine straightens like he just got poked with a cattle prod. His breathing turns from uneven gasps to full-on panting. Mickey takes a step forward and drops to his knees in front of him. They’re both crying, snot-nosed messes, but Mickey doesn’t care. He covers Ian’s fidgeting fingers with his own, forcing him to look up into Mickey’s red-rimmed, bright blue eyes.  
  
“Say it. Even if it's just this once, fucking admit it.” He doesn’t have to say what he wants. Ian knows.  
  
“I loved you,” Ian replies listlessly.  
  
Mickey shakes his head briskly. “Not good enough.”  
  
Ian shoves Mickey’s hands away roughly and stands, stepping around his kneeling figure and trying to get some space between them. “What the hell do you want me to say, Mickey?!” he roars. “That I was halfway in love with you before we even finished fucking for the first time? That you ripped my goddamn heart out over and over again, and I kept coming back for more because I fucking _knew_ with everything I had we were meant to be together? That I love you so much I have to let you get away from me before I fuck up your life completely? Is that good enough for you, Mickey?”  
  
Mickey doesn’t even try to get to his feet. It would be exhausting and he’d probably just fall back on his ass anyway. So he turns and settles his back against the frame of Ian’s bed, scrubbing his knuckles over his face. His voice is strained as he says, “The only thing you could do to fuck up my life completely is cut me loose. I know what you're doing right now, Ian, and you need to stop.”  
  
“You deserve better,” Ian chokes out.  
  
Now he’s just being annoying. It takes all of Mickey’s self-control not to roll his eyes. “There's nothing better than you, Ian,” he says simply. “When are you goin' to get that through your thick skull? I'm crackin' open my fucking heart for you, trying to get through to you, because I know you’re as good as it gets. And you think I could ever imagine there was something better than you? Fuck off,” Mickey snaps with no heat.  
  
Ian is trembling. “Words are great, Mickey, but—”  
  
“No, there are no buts! I tried to fucking show you that I cared, that I was there for you. You think I liked riding your ass about taking yours meds or dealing with your passive aggressive bullshit? It killed me, Ian. I could see how you didn't want me around and it _killed_ me.”  
  
A sob breaks loose from the back of Mickey’s throat. He takes a deep breath before making the conscious decision to get to his feet. Ian shies away from him, pressing into a corner of the room and trying to shield himself again.  
  
But Mickey’s not havin’ it. He gets right in Ian’s face, forcing him to make eye contact. “Actions didn't work before, Ian, so words are all I fuckin' got left." Ian finally looks at him. "I love you. Don't do this. Stay with me.”  
  
There it is. The real reason he should have shown up in the first place. The words he should have said all those months and months ago.  
  
Ian puts a voice to what they’re both thinking. “You said it,” he whispers. “When I left, the first time…” He trails off and looks away. Mickey desperately wants to pull the rest of that train of thought right out of Ian’s mouth. But if there’s one thing Ian needs right now it’s Mickey’s patience. So he grants him that. It pays off when Ian finally continues. “I left because I had to get away from here. After everything with Terry and Svetlana…”  
  
They both visibly cringe. There’s a charged moment of silence.  
  
“But they weren't the only reason,” Ian eventually says. “I wanted you to ask me to stay. I thought it would make you realize that you wanted me." He shakes his head and gulps. "I know how stupid it was, okay? But I get it now. I get why you couldn't say it. The old me didn't understand. I tried to manipulate you and it blew up in my face.”  
  
Mickey is already shaking his head, waving off Ian’s words. “Look, we both know the old me was kind of a prick so don't dump all over yourself.” He knows it’s not enough, that he needs to say more. So he does: “I wanted to ask you, Ian. I wanted to get down on my fucking knees and beg you not to go. But I was a coward.” He hangs his head to avoid Ian’s reaction, but also because the words ring true in his ears. He’s said it to himself a million times since Ian left for the army, but now he realizes just how right he was. "Just like you said."  
  
“No, Mick.” Ian reaches blindly to grab handfuls of Mickey’s shirt and shakes him slightly. “You were scared. Just like I'm scared right now.”  
  
“Tell me about it.”  
  
It would have sounded like sarcasm to Ian if Mickey hadn’t said it so earnestly, if he wasn’t looking up at Ian like his own sanity hinged on whatever words came out of Ian's mouth next.  
  
“What?” Ian blinks. When his grip on Mickey’s shirt loosens, Mickey reaches up and intertwines their fingers, holding their joined hands against his chest.  
  
“Tell me what's goin' on in your head, Ian,” he begs. “You won't talk to Lip or Fiona, fine. But for fuck's sake, please talk to me. I'm here for you. Let me be here for you.”  
  
Ian’s hands clench around Mickey’s. He wants to tear away from him, to put the space of the entire room, the entire block, between them because he knows where this is going. But Mickey is relentless. He keeps a vice grip on Ian’s hands and stares back at him fiercely.  
  
“I'm not fucking broken!” Ian explodes.  
  
Mickey doesn’t even flinch. “Yeah, you fucking are!” he yells back. “I know you are, Ian, because I'm broken, too! We're broken right now and we need to get back to a place where we aren't. I need you and you need me, too. Just... let me be here for you.”  
  
“I don't want to need you, Mickey,” Ian says urgently. “That's fucking unhealthy. For both of us.”  
  
“Fine. You don't need me. Do you want me?”  
  
The question floors Ian. It’s the last thing he expected to hear. “I don't know how to answer that, Mick. You're... all I ever wanted.”  
  
Mickey can’t help it this time. He rolls his eyes at Ian. “Now that's just a flat-out lie.”  
  
“Huh?”  
  
Mickey looks at him like he’s dumb as a box of rocks. 'Cause right now he's acting like it. "You wanted West Point, remember? You wanted to be an officer. You wanted to graduate and get the fuck out of Southside. You wanted those things, Ian. I know you did 'cause you talked my fucking ear off about it for years. _Yap, yap, yap!_  ROTC this, mathematical theorems that. Drove me fuckin’ bonkers.”  
  
Despite himself, Ian laughs. A genuine, cheek-splitting laugh. It barely holds, but Mickey soaks up every second of that smile. It's a sight for sore eyes. It’s almost worth it until Ian sobers and weakly says, “The army would never let me back in.”  
  
Mickey snorts. “After the shit you pulled? Of course they wouldn't let you back in. You made mistakes, Ian. Those are the consequences.” He shrugs. “So that dream's a bust. Big deal. You'll find a new dream. Back to the drawing board. You're 17. You got plenty of time to figure it out.”  
  
"So what should I do until then?" Ian huffs irritably.  
  
"Well, in my humble and totally unbiased opinion, you should go back on your meds." Ian's face scrunches up and he tries to yank his hands away again, but Mickey holds fast. "Now just listen a minute, alright? I hear what you're sayin' about the pills, and I'm sorry. I don't understand what you're goin' through, but it sounds really shitty. You shouldn't have to deal with that, with any of this. But the sad fact is you have to. You have to deal with this, and you have to do it for yourself. I'm not gonna follow you around with a little pushcart and a thermometer, playing nurse anymore. If you want my help then I'm here for you. You know it. But if you gotta do this on your own, I get that. I'll give you space or whatever. Just don't cut me out entirely, Ian. I'll be here for you, on your terms, while you're working through this. Please let me be here for you."  
  
Ian can't recall a time he's heard Mickey speak so much in one day. How many fucking attempts had he made to get Mickey to open up to him? Nearly each and every time he got brushed off, told to shut the fuck up. Now he’s finally getting what he wanted and Mickey couldn’t have worse timing. Ian doesn't know when the last time he slept was. He still feels foggy and sluggish. He can’t get a grasp on his emotions, let alone keep up with this conversation. He only just latches on to that last bit.  
  
“My terms, huh?” he asks, chuckling humorlessly. Mickey still hasn’t let go of his hands. “We've been doing this on my terms since you found me strung out on a sidewalk, Mickey. Then before that, we were only together on your terms, remember? And we both fucked things up spectacularly.” He shrugs, releasing a harsh breath that fans over Mickey’s face and leaves his mouth watering. “Jesus Christ, Mick. Are we ever going to get on the same fuckin' page?”  
  
Mickey nods quickly. “We can. Right now, if you want. Let's get on the same page.”  
  
Ian blanches. He has no idea how they’re going to follow through with that. He has no clue if they even can.  
  
Circles. They kept goin’ round and round in circles. Saying too much and nothing at all at the same time. It's always too little, too late with them. When will this hellish merry-go-round come to a stop? When will one of them finally say enough is enough?  
  
“You fought for me, Ian.” Mickey’s strangled voice breaks Ian’s concentration. His eyes flit up and catch with brilliant blue eyes that see right into his fucking head. “You fought for me, even when I didn't want you to. Fuck, _especially_ when I didn't want you to. Now I'm gonna fight for you, whether you like it or not. Because I know you're not trying to get rid of me so you can be free. You're trying to let me go so I can be free.” Mickey pauses, tilting his head curiously. “You remember what I told you, that night at The Alibi? When you rushed in like a goddamn kamikaze pilot and fought for me again.” His eyebrows raise pointedly. He can never give Ian enough shit for that.  
  
“You mean the night I gave you an ultimatum. The night I manipulated you to get what I wanted and nearly got us both killed. That night?” Ian asks bitterly.  
  
“Yeah, that night,” Mickey answers evenly. “What did I say to you?”  
  
Ian swallows, Adam’s apple bobbing. “You said... you said what you and I had made you free.”  
  
“I didn't just say that to cover my own ass, Ian. I meant it. I still do. But I learned a thing or two since then. You're right. You don't need me and I don't need you. If you really want to break things off, it’s gonna fucking hurt, yeah. But I’ll get over it eventually. I’ll move on. We’ll both go on with our lives. But that's not what I want. And I don't think that's what you want either.”  
  
“It’s not,” Ian says at the same time he realizes how true it is. “I want you.”  
  
Mickey gasps, a tsunami of relief crashing over him. He grips Ian’s hands tighter and pulls them closer together, until they’re breathing the same air. “Then we're gonna work it out,” he vows. “We're gonna get on the same page. 'Cause you were right about something else, too.” Mickey turns sheepish, cheeks flushing pink. His eyes dart away and back to Ian’s again. “We are meant to be together, Ian. How could we fucking not be after all the shit we've been through?”  
  
Ian is floundering. This is all too much at once. It’s everything he’s ever wanted to hear Mickey say to him. But it’s just. Too. Much. “I just… I need you to…”  
  
“It's gonna be okay, Ian. Not right now, maybe not for some time yet. But eventually, I swear to you, you're gonna be okay.”  
  
Mickey unwinds their fingers to cradle Ian’s face in his hands. They latch onto each other desperately, neither of them looking away. Ian’s not sure what Mickey’s excuse is, but he _can’t_ look away. The only thing anchoring him right now, keeping him in this moment, is Mickey’s eyes. If he looks away, he’ll be lost. The fog will swallow him whole and leave him drifting.  
  
Mickey flinches and Ian realizes his nails are digging into Mickey’s arms. That’s when Ian sees the gauze. It’s soaked through with blood. He pulls his fingers away and stares in horror at the red smearing his skin.  
  
“Sammi…”  
  
Mickey tries to shrug, but ends up rolling his shoulder and wincing. “Just a graze.”  
  
Three times. Mickey has been shot because of him three fucking times. _Why?_ It was the question he himself answered earlier. Apparently that answer was the wrong one, though, because Mickey hadn’t let up. Now they were here and Ian was left wondering the exact same thing. Why would Mickey even want him after all the shit Ian’s put him through? Why would he come back and practically beg to go through it all over again?  
  
_You couldn't give up on me because you loved me.  
  
_ There's the answer. Mickey already gave it to him. He was here to fight for him. Because he loves him. It's such a simple answer to a seemingly impossible puzzle that they're been trying to figure out for so long.  
  
"Say it again."  
  
Ian’s voice cracks like a whip through the silence. His glassy eyes are wide and pleading.  
  
Mickey chokes on a sob. "You're gonna be okay."  
  
Ian shakes his head frantically. "No, no. Not that. The—the other thing," he stammers.  
  
Understanding dawns on Mickey's face. He pulls Ian closer, their noses bumping. When he speaks, his lips brush against Ian's.  
  
"I love you."  
  
Ian doesn't hesitate. "I love you, too."  
  
Mickey's head spins. He can't remember ever hearing those words directed at him. His mom probably said it to him before she passed, but his memory of her was fuzzy at best. He certainly never heard it from Terry. Not even Mandy or his brothers.  
  
Just Ian. Ian is the only one who loves him.  
  
He's okay with that.  
  
"So... What do you wanna do now?"  
  
He could be asking anything, really. He could be asking, _What do you wanna do about our relationship?_ Or even, _What do you wanna do so we can work this out?_ But Ian can't think past this moment. He can't bring himself to worry about 5 minutes from now, let alone their entire future together.  
  
"Can we just..." His head drops onto Mickey's uninjured shoulder. "Will you just hold me for a little while?"  
  
Mickey nearly snorts. _A little while? I'll hold you till we fucking starve to death in this room._ He's not even being melodramatic, but Mickey isn't sure Ian can handle the intensity of that answer, so he says, "Of course."  
  
They don't starve, but they do stay in Ian's tiny, cluttered bedroom until the sun goes down. When Fiona comes in to put Liam to bed, they're both sound asleep on Ian's mattress, wrapped around each other with their faces squished together. Fiona doesn't want to be amused because she's still not sure how she feels about Mickey being there, but they just look so freaking adorable. She slips her phone out of her pocket and snaps a picture.  
  
The picture is grainy and the lighting is terrible, but that doesn't stop Ian from getting it printed in the library at Lip's college a few weeks later when he can finally get out of bed. It doesn't stop Mickey from tacking up his copy on the board in their room, right next to the only other picture he has of Ian.  
  
"Why do you still have that?" Ian asks one night while they're laying in bed.  
  
"What?" Mickey grumbles, lifting his head off the pillow to follow Ian's sleepy gesture. "You mean your picture? Had to hold onto it, man. You were runnin' off so much, was afraid I'd forget what your fucking face looks like."  
  
Ian laughs. They've gotten to the point where joking about his fuck-ups is actually funny. It took a while, but here they are. "Yeah, I'm so sure. That's totally unfair, by the way. I never had a picture of you to jerk off to."  
  
Mickey rolls over, wedging his knee between Ian's thighs and grinding against his hip. "The fuck you talkin' about? You take pictures of me all the fuckin' time. You ain't as stealthy as you think, ya know."  
  
It's true. Ian used to take pictures of things like trees and sunsets or even a cute dog he saw in the park. Now his photo album is mostly full of Mickey. Mickey smoking at the kitchen table, talking wildly with his hands when Svetlana asks how his day went. Mickey feeding Yevgeny oatmeal, laughing when most of it on ends up on his shirt. Mickey floating lazily in the pool, drinking a beer while he watches Liam dog paddle around him. Mickey laid out on their bed, his legs tangled in the sheets with just the curve of his ass peeking out.  
  
Monica had been right about one thing: Ian needed to be with people who accept him for who he is. She said those people were out there and he thought that meant they weren't here, that he had to go and find them. But he was wrong. Mickey is here. Fiona and Lip and Debbie and Liam. They're all here, loving him no better and no worse for exactly who he is. Now that Ian knows the truth, he just wants to stay focused on it.  
  
"Well, yeah, _now_ I have plenty of pictures of you," Ian snarks, winding his arms around Mickey and squeezing. "Back in the day, I only had my wild imagination."  
  
"'Back in the day'?" Mickey snorts. "Man, that was like six months ago."  
  
Ian laughs against Mickey's neck. "Feels like a lifetime ago."  
  
They both go quiet at that. They were trying—so fucking hard—to leave the past where it belonged. But sometimes it came back and haunted them. Sometimes it drove them to the edge again, made them want to jump or push each other over. Mickey knew if he pushed Ian, he would just wind up catching him at the bottom. And Ian knew if he jumped, he would regret it. So they were trying. Trying not to self-destruct or destroy because it never turned out well _back in the day_.  
  
"I like this song." Mickey's gentle voice breaks the silence. Ian turns his head towards the door, listening.  
  
_I feel your head resting heavy on your single bed_  
_I want to hear all about it, get it all off your chest_  
  
"Svetlana found the record player," Mickey explains because they're both a little weirded out to hear music playing in the Milkovich house. "She says it'll help Yev learn English since she's always cooing at him in fuckin' Russian."  
  
_You don’t have to be there, babe_  
_You don’t have to be scared, babe_  
  
"Thank God he has you to teach him how to curse like a sailor," Ian says, smirking.  
  
Mickey huffs out a laugh and plants a firm kiss on Ian's cheek. "No, thank God he has you to teach him how to be fucking normal. Between having a pimp for a father and a whore for a mother, he was bound to be at least a little screwed up. But now you're here and you're stayin' so it's all good."  
  
Ian nods, his nose nuzzling into Mickey's neck. He inhales and feels calm. "Yep. It's all good."  
  
_You don’t need a plan of what you want to do_  
_Won’t you listen to the man that's loving you?_

 

**Author's Note:**

> fic title from george ezra's "listen to the man": https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=ZS0WvzRVByg


End file.
